


The End

by Anonanonsir



Category: Enderal (Video Game)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-23 00:18:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12494144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonanonsir/pseuds/Anonanonsir
Summary: A re-imagining of the Catharsis ending. Brief one-shot.(spoilers go without saying)





	The End

It was the way the dreams always began: standing in the clearing, the old clearing in the forest filled with the hollow-eyed ghosts of burned out buildings. Ahead of him stretched a narrow, dirt path, winding up towards the crest of the hill, but he made no move to take it. The sense of compulsion which had always propelled him was gone. Something had changed.

A breeze stirred the leaves overhead, tousling his hair and brushing his cheek. It smelled of the mountains, of the nearby trickling stream, of damp leaves underfoot. The reek of burnt wood and flesh which had hung in the air like a bitter aftertaste, pervading every dream until now, was gone. He drew in a breath, filling his lungs with the clean, cool air and it felt like the first truly deep breath he’d taken in years. 

Even the light felt different. It was not, he realized suddenly, the rich gold of late afternoon, but the pale, gentle light of morning. He looked around him and saw the ruins, once barren, now overrun with long, lazy grasses and slender saplings. Bright leaves peeped out of windows and doors and collapsed roofs. A rustle of leaves, a streak of red fur; he turned just in time to see a chipmunk skitter beneath a pile of fallen timbers.

He took a slow, wondering step forward. Soft grass, heavy with dew bent under his bare feet and brushed his ankles. Only his ankles…. He blinked in confusion. The grass, everything seemed shorter, smaller. Smaller than he’d remembered. He looked down at his hands. Criss-crossed with pale ribbons of scar tissue, the familiar callouses between his middle and forefinger from gripping the nock of an arrow. Not a child’s hands.

He had the strangest sensation of time passing. Not fast or slow, but simply flowing where previously it had been stagnant. It washed past and over him like the waters of a stream.

He remembered then, those last moments, the harsh, colorless light of the Beacon searing through him. He remembered his hands, blackened and covered with blood, and his blade thrust up to the hilt in Arantheal’s throat. Anger and fear and the light burning away what was left of him as his sword came down upon the final crystal.

It felt strangely distant now, blurred and distorted at the edges, as if it were the dream and this the reality. But he knew better. He knew what it meant. He looked around him at the sun dappled clearing, and there was a tightness in his throat as he felt again the warmth of the sun on his face and the tickle of grass under his feet.  

He drew in a breath, his senses clinging to the scents of earth and wild honeysuckle, and the coolness of air against tearstained cheeks. He closed his eyes, letting the quiet fill him up. And then he stepped slowly out of the grass, to take the path one last time winding through the trees to the top of the hill.

He did not hurry, though there was no reluctance in his pace, the old house held no fear for him now. It’s ghosts were long since gone. There was a deep stillness here now, this place which had never known peace as long as he could remember, but that shadow was gone from it and the tumbledown buildings alive with green and growing things. One way or another, life kept on. He wondered what that meant for the world he’d left behind.

The top of the hill was open to the sky and the sun shone jewel bright on the dew soaked grass and the small, empty cottage and on the figure sitting there on the steps.

Eska froze, his breath catching painfully in his throat. The figure looked up, a soft smile spreading across his face as he caught sight of Eskander and pushed to his feet. It was the same sandy hair, the same sun-browned skin and crooked nose, the same scar cutting his jawline.

 _Sirius_. He breathed the name like a prayer, uncertain, unbelieving. He shook his head, his vision swimming with tears, wanting to run to him, wanting to recoil, unable to move to do either.

The figure closed the distance between them in a few quick strides, his hands clasping Eskander’s thin shoulders. “You took your time.”  

There was fondness in his eyes and laughter, and the warmth in his voice was the same, and with something like a sob, Eskander threw his arms around Sirius’ neck, tears spilling down his cheeks. His arms held fiercely tight and he felt a soft exhale, a puff of laughter against his neck as strong arms folded around him, warm and reassuringly solid.

He buried his face in his shoulder and wept, for grief and joy both at once, until at last Sirius pulled away, prising him loose just enough to look him in the face, his brown eyes gentle with concern, but there was none of the anxiousness which had clouded them so often before. “Hey. _Hey_. It’s alright. You’re alright now.” Hands cupped Eskander’s face, forcing his eyes up to meet his and wiping away the tears, calloused hands rough against his cheeks.

And then he smiled, with all the brilliance and warmth of an Ostian summer day. “C’mon,” he said, “Come with me.”


End file.
